In brief:

I'm a redheaded mama with four lovely daughters. We're based in southern Australia and travel in a small, colourful housebus — meeting inspiring people, learning lots and re-thinking everything. I feel passionately about spirituality, good design, alternative education, discussing death and conscious parenting.

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The haberdashery of grief

20 April 16

Grief is an apron tied tightly around my throat and that constricts my torso as I bend and weave through the movements of everyday life. I feel its relentless presence daily, and there is nothing to gain in pursing the futility of seeking to cast it aside.

For it’s double-sided, this garment which I did not choose. One surface reminds me of my precious baby boy — the memories that help me clutch his brief existence next to my own mortal heart. The other side is a heavy burn of pain, a deep aching that fluctuates as I move my body but never quite ebbs into nothingness.

If I ever managed to disrobe the grief in the name of closure, I would also lose the treasure that my child was to me. So I wear it daily, noticing its presence more on some days and less on others.

But as time progresses, I’ve realised that the pain from my grief apron isn’t only originating from the simple fabric of loss. Instead, it’s comprised of scratchy lace around the armholes, stitches in bothersome places and random strings of buttons that chafe at my tender parts. The haberdashery that hangs off the edges goads my spirit and reminds me more of my invisible attire than the loss itself.

I twist with the torment and reach with my fingertips to probe at the irritant. As I reach the prickle and identify it, I realise that I’m still choosing to hang on emotions that are hindering my full healing.

Grief does not change you, it reveals you.

Anger is easy to identify. It’s sewn on so meticulously that it feels like it belongs with the grief — friends and family members who have not understood, have not responded, have not supported, have not cared in the way that I felt should be obvious.

Oh, and look, here are two patches of roughness that are really resentment and disappointment. Despite owning my experience as a perfect part of my journey, I still resent the ignorance and feel disappointment at the callousness of others who have not practiced compassion.

Uncovering that leads me quickly to a line of judgement buttons. They bump against my skin as I encounter people on contrasting journeys, and I feel the studs press into me — triggering an internal criticism at those who do things differently.

Some adornments on my apron of grief are embroidered so tightly I do not believe that I will ever be able to unpick them. Guilt is a patch of scratchy stitches across my breasts — could I have prevented my son’s death? Fear presses into my throat with a cold, metallic hardness — how could I possibly survive another loss?

And there are the uglier trimmings that invisibly weigh me down but are occasionally revealed by the light — envy and jealousy at those who have been spared my pain, at those who can still hold their child to their breast and feel the sweet baby breath on their cheek. Others’ lives are continuing, and I recognise a streak of schadenfreude hidden in the hem — “harm-joy” which embodies a most awful desire for another’s misfortune.

Yes, it’s an apron of grief that I wear, that wraps too many of us under the veneer of normalcy. It’s a constant companion, so when I catch a glimpse of someone else’s pain I want to rip off my outer layers and reveal the truth. Each time I do, I discover the bits and bobs that I can remove, and I sit down to work at unpicking the haberdashery.

I did not choose my apron of grief, but I can steadily work on lightening the load, on smoothing the surface, on cutting away the negative embellishments and repairing the fabric so all I am left with is pure grief once again — painful but purely so.

The haberdashery of grief does not serve me, so I’m freeing myself from its companionship. How about you?

***

I’ve found meaningful support through The Compassionate Friends Victoria’s support group for bereaved parents. The Compassionate Friends have chapters around the world which may also be helpful for you or someone you know. You are not alone. So much love, Lauren.

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Comments

Beautiful, raw and soulful writing, as always. Thank you for opening yourself and sharing your feelings and pain. All we can do is be present and love you. Blessings as you journey along, and wishing you peace as time goes by. I have so much respect for your honesty. Love you darling xoxox

Wow, Lauren, just beautiful. I understand all your feelings so well, and miss Trek so much each day, I have felt all the emotions you explained. But wow, you put to words them perfectly. Thanks for sharing your heart, and again, I wish you did not know this pain, that your sweet son was safe and warm in your arms. so much love ,Chelsea

Thank you Lauren. My own grief is that of having survived a childhood of trauma and abuse. In a way, my grief garment was stitched into the very fabric of my being at such a young age that only two years ago did I realise I was wearing something not my own. Working one’s way back to pure grief seems to be an “again and again” kind of process. And when we are there we find ourselves blessed and watered by our tears, connected to something truly nutritive from which a deeper kind of life can perhaps finally sprout shoots. <3

So beautifully expressed. I can’t do anything about your grief and I am sad about that. However reading your blog has taught me a life lesson. Eg Grief is not always expressed how I expect it to be. How people grieve is none of my business. What works for them is fine and I should be supportive in whatever is working for them.
So thank you. In your grief you’ve helped me to help others.

Beautiful. Twenty six years later for me, and I still wear the apron; it has become less scratchy over time, and possibly more comfortable but the threads are still there. There are times when I am grateful I have had the opportunity to wear it, but grief still simmers beneath the surface of everyday normalcy. Thank you for sharing.

Thankyou Lauren, this is beauty of a rare sort… and especially precious to me this Mother’s Day as I reflect on mothering my own children, the mother love I receive from others and my own beloved mother who left this life over 30 years ago… It is honesty like this from others in their journeys that helps heal the motherless child in me… You are right, the grief never leaves… but would we want it to? When Sorrow is chased away, Joy follows… the two must dwell together or not at all. Blessings

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Whatever remarks you choose to leave reflect on the state of your own being and character and not on me or my family — especially if you have never met us and lived alongside us. I understand this; when you truly comprehend this too, we have begun to transform the world into a kinder place.